


Love Light

by rosegardeninwinter



Series: The Snowstorm Universe [4]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hunger Games, Baking, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Mild Sexual Content, but there, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28400667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: “It’s snowing,” he says as he comes back to the bedside. “I bet it started last night. It’s like someone dropped a bag of sugar over everything. Come with me,” he adds. “I bake much better when I have company.”Katniss, Peeta, and Prim do some snowy day baking.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Series: The Snowstorm Universe [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006437
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	Love Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Seasons of Everlark: Winter 2020 on tumblr. Based on the anon prompt "Christmas baking!" The fourth installment in the Snowstorm Universe, approximately two months after Hearthsong (and, though the characters don’t know this, in my mind it is set on Christmas day). You don’t need to have read the Snowstorm Universe to get the basics of this AU, which are that Prim won the 74th Games, and Peeta and Katniss fell in love, courted, and are now married. 
> 
> Special thank you to @captainseaweedbrains/populardarling who acted as my lovely beta on this sugary fluff-fest! Enjoy! 

The heat from the wood stove makes the windows fog, blurring the pale violet dawn behind our curtains, as my lips trail back up my husband’s body to make a home against his throat, feeling his pulse coming down from its rapid peak. 

“Good morning,” I say innocently, tapping my fingers in a meaningless pitter-patter against his chest. 

Peeta exhales a raspberry. “It is now.” 

I laugh. Nip at his neck and get a gentle swat on my hip for my trouble. “Give me a second and I’ll return the favor,” he says, but I yawn and shake my head. 

“Later,” I say. “I was promised gingerbread last night.” 

“That you were,” he says, a bit dazedly, “and you’ll have it.” 

I sigh and tuck my nose against his neck, breathing in his scent. His fingers lightly trace my arm, resting across his chest in a loose embrace. It’s not usual for us to stay in bed like this. Most days, I’m up and out running errands for my mother, or helping Prim make charity baskets for the people who will accept her generosity. Peeta frosts the cakes for his father’s bakery, and makes cookies to go in the baskets. Prim’s winnings mean neither of us have to work, but it’s not in my nature to be idle. Making the charity baskets is the least I can do to help those less well off than we are. 

“Okay, woman,” Peeta says at last. “You’ll have to let me up if you want that gingerbread.” 

“Hmm,” I say, nestling my nose further into his neck. I smile against his skin, then kiss his shoulder. “If you insist.” 

“I didn’t,” he laughs, but swings himself out of our bed anyway. He pulls on his pajama pants and shimmies into a sweater. I bite my lip, admiring his broad shoulders and back, before they disappear behind the thick fabric. He gets a match from atop the stove to light the lone candles in each of our two windowsills. 

“You’re sure I can’t open a window?” he asks, hand already on the latch. “It’s burning up in here.” 

This is one of those compromises and arguments we’ve had to resolve as we get used to living as a couple. Peeta, having grown up sharing one room with his brothers, wants to leave the windows open, even in winter. I spent the early years of my life stopping the cracks in our windows up with old gloves and bits from the rag bag, and I hate the cold. But I’m cozy with his residual heat trapped under our quilt, so I nod. 

Peeta pops the latch and opens the window a sliver. The curtains and the candle flame flicker in a breeze, but the candle doesn’t go out. My husband peers onto the street below. 

“It’s snowing,” he says as he comes back to the bedside. “I bet it started last night. It’s like someone dropped a bag of sugar over everything. Come with me,” he adds. “I bake much better when I have company.” 

I smile and prop myself up on my elbows to receive a quick peck on my lips and promise that I’ll join him in a minute. He leaves. His footsteps, never very quiet, thunk down the stairs and I smirk as I stretch my arms above my head, curl my toes. I could go back to dozing, but I won’t pretend I don’t like to sit and watch my husband work. I get up, wash my face, and braid my hair down my back. The stockings my mother made for my wedding go up to my knees, and a warm shawl goes over my shoulders. I shut the door to our room behind me and let my hand trail the bannister as I tiptoe downstairs. Chances are, my mother isn’t awake. She has the most patients in December and January, when illness and hunger are their worst. She needs her rest. 

There is a soft conversation coming from the kitchen. I pause in the doorway, leaning against the green trim. My sister bends over a handwritten recipe book as Peeta sets out his baking supplies: bowls, measuring cups, spoons. My heart warms at the sight, as it always does. The cold season isn’t easy on Prim. The end of the year brings the Victory Tour to our district. For Prim, that means bad memories and nightmares. Peeta knows about them. The last time she couldn’t sleep, it was my husband who discovered her crying in the living room when he got up at four in the morning to put on a starter for bread. She’d fallen back asleep against his shoulder on the couch, and I’d fallen more in love with him than I thought was possible when I found them later. Peeta fits so perfectly into our home, I don’t know how we managed before him.

“Ooh, ‘cinnamon pull-apart bread,’” Prim is saying, tapping the page with her metal finger. “That sounds amazing.” 

“It is,” Peeta agrees. “Even better with apples, when we could get them. We could make it tomorrow if you want. How much white vinegar for the gingerbread?” 

Prim flips forward a few pages. “Um — two tablespoons.” She looks up at me. “Good morning.” 

I wrap my arm around her as I come over to see the recipe book. “How can I help?” I ask. 

“Ask your baker,” Prim laughs. “I only know I’m on kettle duty.” She nods to where the kettle is hung over the hearth, warming up. 

“Katniss, if you’ll take these.” Peeta sets three glass jars marked “syrup” “apple mash” and “molasses” in front of me, along with a wooden bowl and stirring spoon. He kisses my temple. “I can handle the spices and flour.” 

The three of us set to work in the quiet, cozy morning. The only sounds are those of opening jars, stirring spoons, the fire cracking, and Prim reading measurements to us. The sun continues to rise, and snow continues to float down under a pale purple sky. 

I bring the jar of molasses up to my nose and breathe in the heady scent. It’s only thanks to Prim that we can afford such expensive things, and we try not to use them often for ourselves, but today I add an extra splash of maple syrup to the wet ingredients in my bowl. I hear my husband groan when he sees me do it. 

“It’s the Everdeen sweet tooth,” Prim laughs, going to fetch the whistling kettle and add the hot water to my mix. “Can’t be helped. Especially not with three of us in the house.” 

“Apparently not,” Peeta says, grinning. 

I hop up to sit on the counter as he takes my bowl and slowly stirs in the dry ingredients, making a thin, brown batter. We haven’t even put it in the oven yet and it smells good enough to just drink up. 

“Almost done,” Peeta says, picking up a measuring spoon and smiling like he’s a little boy again. “This is Granny’s recipe, so there’s one last thing.” 

“What’s that?” 

Peeta twirls the spoon between his fingers thoughtfully. “She always said to add one spoonful of being grateful, even if there wasn’t much to be grateful for.” He goes pink around the nose and ears. “I mean, we don’t have to,” he says. “It was just something we did as kids.” 

“No,” I say. “I — I think that’s a beautiful idea, Peeta.” It sounds like something my father would do, something Peeta would teach our children, if we lived in a world safe enough to have them. 

He gives me a look glowing with what my father would call love light, and strokes my stockinged leg. “Thank you,” he says. “I can start.” He pretends to scoop something out of the air. “One spoonful … for sunrises.” 

Then it’s Prim’s turn. She holds the spoon up in the candlelight, the glimmer reflecting on the shiny surface, and smiles. “One spoonful … for a warm fire.” 

I don’t know what I want to say. I have an abundance of things to be grateful for, in spite of where we live. I have a roof over my head and warm clothes. I have gingerbread and stockings, violet sunrises and snowfall — and I have hope. I’m not even sure of what, but with my husband and my sister beside me, I have it all the same. 

“One spoonful … for having spoonfuls, ” I say, and I trust they understand what I mean. 

I don’t know if the spoonfuls of being grateful do anything to make the batter taste better, but I wouldn’t put it past Jenny Ann Mellark. And when, an hour or so later, I’m laughing as her grandson kisses sticky gingerbread crumbs from my fingers, while my sister giggles and pretends to hide from us behind her mug of warm milk, I decide I’m pretty sure they do. 


End file.
